La question ultime
by xquild
Summary: Hastings is in love with Poirot and suggests a mystery hunt, so that Poirot can figure out the secret himself. Warning! Poirot/Hastings slash, do not read if offended!
1. Two men, an inn and a proposal

**A/N:** I'm doing something I've never done before: writing a fic just because no-one else has done it (or, in the case of Poirot/Hastings, because there are so few fics to read). I know my narration style is far from Christie's (I've read most of the books in Finnish), so I hope you don't mind a modern touch, though I'm keeping the guys as IC as I possibly can. Hope you enjoy it, also the bad-tempered side of Poirot, which is very underrepresented among Poirot/Hastings-fics. For the love of those two, have fun reading!

**A/N2: **"My Poirot" is like described in the books: green-eyed and not balding, but otherwise much like our beloved David Suchet.

* * *

**Chapter 1****: Two men, an inn and a proposal**

"What do you mean, sir?"

Hercule Poirot was absolutely not at all pleased. He decided to stay calm for another moment. She was, after all, obviously quite simple.

"No, no, good _madame_, I am afraid you do not understand the nature of this problem –"

Good madame behind the counter looked more and more frustrated, very well understanding the nature of this problem, but for the sake of good service took a deep breath and started all over again. She spoke relatively slowly, this man was, after all, obviously quite French.

"I'm terribly sorry that your room isn't what you expected, sir, but this is a humble inn and never claimed to be anything else, I'm sure", she said and faked her most customer friendly smile, "and we are booked full." When the little man said nothing, she looked hopefully at the taller – obviously quite British, this one – and slightly amused-looking man.

"Poirot, I'm sure there's nothing they can do", Arthur Hastings said, now hiding his amusement surprisingly well. He bent down a bit to make Poirot look him eye to eye and went on a bit softer. "We decided to stay here, if there's a mistake it's ours."

"And it is nobody's mistake that this charming little village only has one hotel – thank you _madame_", Poirot said and turned away from the counter, letting his compassionate smile fade away. "Outrageous.." he mumbled as he started walking towards the staircase, face frowned to the point of giving an impression of a dried plum.

"Well, at least we don't have a view like the one time in Paris", Hastings said encouragingly.

"Hmh, a _vis-à-vis_ , but this is worse", Poirot scowled. "In _Paris_, I could cover everything I did not want to see with the curtains – what, should we ask whether they have enough _étoffe_ to cover the whole room?"

This couldn't spoil Hastings' mood. They had travelled to Scotland for some fresh air and personally Hastings was used to a lower standard than Poirot when it came to accommodation. Hastings had suggested this particular village because he had once visited a friend here, and a quiet and small place like this suited his purposes for this little holiday.

He was in love with his friend. No, not the Scottish one he had visited – actually Harry Dobson had died a few years back, just for the record – no, he was in love with Hercule Poirot and for a reason unknown to himself he had decided to somehow let Poirot know it. This idea hadn't come to Hastings quickly; hell, this loving thing had taken him a year to digest and two more years to accept at least to some extent. Now, after a total of five years (five because it's a good, decent, British count, he thought) it was time.

_This is going to be way harder than I expected_, he realised when he saw Poirot's protesting look when he opened their door.

***

It was not the fact that the room was a honeymoon 'suite' that bothered Poirot the most – he was used to sleeping in all kinds of suites and the honeymoon suite was usually the best one. It was the fact that the room was about twice the size of his cabinet in the train, was decorated with the infallible fashion sense of an enthusiastic but a bit senile mother-in-law and had an unidentified earthly smell to it.

On the bright side, there were two separate beds divided with a bedside table (the passionate Gaul in him felt sorry for all the actual newlyweds that had to share that room, in this land of _pudibond_), a decent washroom and a small balcony. It was already beginning to grow dim outside, but at midday it had been sunny and warm. The place did have some comfortable country charm, but Poirot could have sworn that the beds didn't have any _comfortability_ – –

"That's not a word", Hastings said when Poirot told him what he thought of the room and gave a friendly laugh. Poirot now seemed almost amused, maybe even starting to cheer up, so Hastings struck while the iron was hot. "And the food here is actually very good, I used to have dinner here with Harry."

"Your Scottish friend, Mr Dobson?"

"Yes. The food was indeed wonderful."

Poirot considered this for a second, took a breath and nodded somewhat relinquishly. "That is good. Now let us go to see that wonderful _chef_, shall we?" Poirot said and smiled a little, and that smile made Hastings want to pray on his knees that the damned chef hadn't died. Or resigned in which case Hastings would be more than glad to have him dead.

***

The evening went well considering the sluggish start and when the kitchen closed they proceeded to the small terrace. There were five tables surrounded with padded garden seats.

"The view is enjoyable, _ mon ami_", Poirot said and slightly raised his glass of cognac, "I can finally understand why you wanted to come here, not that I did not trust my Hastings." Good food (although quite rustic), wine and cognac had lifted his spirits enormously.

"Thank you", Hastings said smilingly and fingered the handle of his pint. "So, how are the grey cells? Is there any chance they are getting a vacation, too?"

"Never, Hastings", Poirot said puckishly, "Hercule Poirot is always alert."

"Good, because I have a mystery for you to solve", Hastings said in a jestingly serious voice.

Jestingly, of course, because he didn't want to reveal the truly serious nature of the little mystery. During the dinner, he had been thinking of a way of letting Poirot know of his affection, and figured that this was the best way. After all, Poirot would have to process the information before realising the whole truth, hence it would be less of a shock. He was quite impressed for coming up with this.

"You know that I dislike mysteries during vacation", Poirot said but looked already interested. "And therefore you are already certain that I will take interest in it?"

"Nonsense, you love mysteries during any time of year", Hastings said lightly, "but also apart from that, yes, I'm sure you will be interested."

"Alright, Hastings", Poirot said putting the cognac glass aside and concentrated on his friend. "Or should I say '_shoot me!_'."

"I shall", Hastings laughed and drank from his beer. "I happen to know a secret concerning one of the guests in this inn. You are to find it out with only one method."

"Restrictions, _excellent_. And that method you are referring to is—?"

"Asking me", Hastings said with a little smirk.

Poirot looked delighted and tilted his head slightly, as he did often when he was surprised.

"You can ask me five questions per day, and each time I can only answer 'yes' or 'no'", Hastings elaborated, thought for a moment and went on: "And – so, you understand that I cannot answer 'maybe' or leave a question unanswered?"

"Yes yes, my friend. This sounds indeed very intriguing", Poirot said and nodded, "although I must say that Poirot has a feeling that this will be very easy – just wait, my Hastings… But this did come as a good action for the grey cells, indeed."

***


	2. Four out of five

**Chapter 2: ****Four out of five**

**Day 1****, 11:44 pm**

**H:** _It begins._

**P:** "Let us begin, Hastings."

**H:** _Yes._

**P:** "The very first question –"

**H:** _What the hell am I doing?_

**P:** "—of the famous_ Monsieur_ Hercule Poirot –"

**H:** _What if he really finds out?_

**P:** "—regarding the mystery hunt proposed by my dear friend –"

**H:** _Look neutral. Smile, just a little, encouragingly. Good._

**P:** "—very kind and respected Captain Arthur Hastings, is –"

**H:** _Why do I even stick with that dramaholic… Beer's good, though._

**P:** "_Numéro un_. Is the mystery person a man?"

**H:** "Yes."

**P:** "_Numéro deux_. Is his name Arthur Hastings?"

**H:** _Oh great. _"…Yes."

**P:** "I see."

**H:** _Those eyes, like a cat's._

**P:** "_Numéro trois_. Has he had this secret for longer than, let us say four years?"

**H:** "Yes." _I hate number four, two times two, a square, one times two plus two times one – _

**P:** "More than four years, _mon Dieu_, dear Hastings. It must be personal. I will stop asking if you wish."

**H:**_ No, he must know, _"Cat's out of the bag."

**P:** "_Bien, quatre_. Is it a matter of family?"

**H:** "No." _Now looking very dear, so friendly and soft. And of course he would love four, that perfectionist._

**P:** "_Finalement, cinq. _Is it a matter of love?"

**H:** _Oh dear. _"Yes."

***

It wasn't long after midnight that the two men left the terrace and went to sleep. Neither one of them had said much after the enquiry, mostly because Hastings was too embarrassed and afraid to give clues and because Poirot was thinking so hard – this case was very disturbing in many ways. It was about his dearest and closest friend. A matter of love, hidden for over four years. _Bien sûr_ he would find out soon enough, but this questioning could reveal more than if Hastings had just told him straight away.

While in bed (_oui_, _très inconfortable_, _merci beaucoup_), Poirot was weighing the mystery hunt, unaware of the fact that only a few feet away from him, Captain Arthur Hastings was dreaming about ripping his favourite white suit off him and kissing him so passionately, that even Poirot's Gaul part would've been impressed. And he would call him Arthur and cry it out loud.

No, quite unaware of this, Mister Poirot finally fell asleep and when he woke up, he saw Hastings sitting on the bed next to his, gazing at him.

"_Bonjour_, Hastings…" Poirot mumbled and sat up. "Is there something wrong?"

"No, of course not", Hastings said cheerily and stood up. "Did you sleep well?"

"Quite remarkably", Poirot said, still slightly baffled for having been so intensely gazed at the first thing in the morning, and got up.

Hastings himself had no idea why he was so happy this morning. He must've dreamt of something funny. Now he was on the balcony, leaning on the wrought iron rail and smoking his happy morning cigarette. He didn't want to smoke inside since the room was so tiny, so now he could see the admirable view of the Scottish Lowlands and give Poirot some privacy.

Even though he felt – for now – carefree, a very familiar thought was creeping into his mind. What would happen when Poirot finally found out that he loved him? And loved, really, not the way friends do, or brothers, but the way that, for Christ's sake_, Juliet loved Romeo_ – (but this thought was then corrupted by a disturbing image of himself in a dress and Poirot trying to climb a wall and he couldn't decide which would be more unlikely.)

However, the only scenario he could imagine – besides the most desired one which, ladies and gentlemen, included some quite explicit themes – was that Poirot would leave at once, claiming that they can never be friends – and no, nothing else either.

He went in, stubbed out the cigarette to the ash tray and looked at himself in the mirror.

So that's what a gay man looks like.

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N: **To those who are interested in semantics and etymology: "_In addition to its original and continuing senses of "merry, lively" and "bright or showy," _gay_ has had various senses dealing with sexual conduct since the 17th century. – – , and _gay_ as an adjective meaning "homosexual" goes back at least to the early 1900s."_

Also 'queer': "_Sense of "homosexual" first recorded 1922; the noun in this sense is 1935, from the adj._"

And my ultimate favourite 'faggot': '_male homosexual,' 1914, . slang (shortened form _fag_ is from 1921), probably from earlier contemptuous term for "woman" (1591), especially an old and unpleasant one, in reference to _faggot_ (1) 'bundle of sticks,' as something awkward that has to be carried (cf. baggage). – – It may also be reinforced by Yiddish _faygele_ 'homosexual,' lit. 'little bird.' It also may have roots in Brit. public school slang _fag_ 'a junior who does certain duties for a senior' (1785), with suggestions of catamite, from _fag_ (v.). This was also used as a verb._ 'He _[the prefect]_ used to _fag_ me to blow the chapel organ for him.' _['Boy's Own Paper,' 1889]_

[Source (all): dictionary dot com]

***


	3. Happened in the corridor

**Chapter 3****: Happened in the corridor**

"I hate to ask you, Poirot, but how did you know it was me?"

They were having breakfast and luckily the chef was working – otherwise Poirot would've had to skip the breakfast or eat the Scottish load of lard which Hastings also called: eggs, beans, bacon, sausage and haggis (and on top of that, quite enjoyed it).

"Well you see Hastings, I figured this: he wants to share a secret with me. It's either only a mystery hunt game or something else. But mystery hunt does not give Hastings any profit. He must have a motive, I thought. Is it not possible that he finds it amusing to watch Poirot solve a mystery? Of course it is, but knowing you… only maybe", Poirot told with a satisfied but playful smile on his face.

"Yes, of course.. quite idiotic of me, in fact", Hastings said, "to try hide a secret from someone who knows me as well as you."

"But you did hide it for many years already", Poirot reminded him, "besides, dear Hastings, one must always remember that even the brightest mind always has it difficult to look at himself and the people standing next to him objectively."

And thank god for that, otherwise he would've known it before I did, thought one very lucky man.

"Yes, I suppose that's always the case", Hastings added and decided to concentrate on eating.

***

When they had finished eating and reached their floor, making their way to their door, a strong-looking woman strode to them with an impolite expression and said in a thick Scottish accent: "Excuse me but are you two staying in the newlyweds' room?"

"Yes, indeed we are", Poirot answered, instantly irritated by that woman.

A man, who looked a lot like her (or she looked like him – they could've been identical twins in case one was cross-dressing) came right after her, scowling at her: "No, I told you not to! I'm so sorry, gentlemen—"

Despite the fact that the man was trying to stop the woman's rude approach, he didn't seem to be very friendly towards Hastings and Poirot either.

The woman paid little attention to her 'twin' and went on: "Because we are staying in the room next to yours and we can hardy sleep at night."

Poirot was struggling to keep his face plain and at the same time figure out what was going on. Hastings on the other hand, probably because his mind was already polluted with indecent thoughts, got it sooner: "There must've been a mistake; I can guarantee you that it isn't in any way possible that I or my friend could've—" (although he wouldn't have minded if they had) "—made any disturbing noises at all during the night."

"Right, just what I told you", commented the man whose face was pinker than the tip of Poirot's nose. "We will be leaving now, sorry to have interrupted you."

"Excuse me!" the woman said to his man and turned to Hastings. "I would've liked to believe that, but I was told that you two are besides us the only people staying on the uppermost floor – don't think I would otherwise have come to talk to you."

Poirot was not used to be treated like trash. He was used to be treated with amusement or mockery, but this was something quite shocking. He opened his mouth to tell her that he had no idea what she was talking about, when Hastings came to the rescue again: "Well, I can assure you that there is no chance it could've been us, so please excuse us."

He turned and opened their room's door. "Poirot?"

"Yes.." Poirot answered, gave the rude couple a disapproving look and went in with his brave knight.

***

It had been a long time since Hastings had seen Poirot this upset.

"Hastings! Is it _possible_ that I misunderstood or did those horrible titans think that –"

"That we were gay, yes", Hastings said submissively.

"Yes—?" Poirot stuttered and looked at Hastings petrified. Obviously he wouldn't have continued his sentence quite like that. "_Quoi_!"

Oh my God, if this is what he thinks of himself being gay –, Hastings had just started to think when Poirot pushed his train of thought off the rail.

"How ridiculous!" Poirot exclaimed but to Hastings' surprise, had the familiar air of accomplishment and the look he had usually when he had managed to mislead someone on purpose.

Thinking about this and what it could've meant, Hastings sat down on the bed and asked Poirot: "What is it?"

Poirot turned to look at Hastings, calming down a little more and smiled lightly. "It it only appropriate that two such rude people should embarrass themselves so badly", he said a bit maliciously.

"But Poirot—" Hastings said.

"It is only appropriate", Poirot insisted.

"Well, thank you for being honest", Hastings said and as they started to prepare themselves for a stroll, Hastings realised a new possibility and suddenly felt like thanking their neighbors.

***

Hastings and Poirot were walking down the little road that, along with the houses surrounding it, formed the whole village. When their former discussion ended, Hastings could fluently plant a new subject:

"Well, good that you're not too upset about what happened earlier."

"Of course I am upset", Poirot claimed but sounded fairly serene. "But it was a misunderstanding – probably young lovers had come upstairs in the middle of the night, hiding from their relatives or looking for double beds."

"Mm-m. I'm quite upset myself", Hastings said and shook his head, "they were most rude."

"Yes, and understandably", Poirot said nonchalantly, "if they thought that we were _homosexuel_."

"Exactly, I mean, what would you do?" Hastings prompted.

"Nothing like that, _certainement_", Poirot answered quickly but elaborated, "if two men were disturbing my sleep excessively I would approach the receptionist."

"But you wouldn't talk to them?"

"I would talk to the receptionist even if these people were a man and a woman", Poirot said and – to Hastings' delight – really went deep into the matter. "Yes well, if these people seemed friendly or intelligent enough, I could start a conversation about the rock-hard beds in this place and also drop a hint about hearing some loud noises during the night."

"If only those Scotts had your manners", Hastings said smilingly.

"What would _you_ do then, Hastings?"

"I don't know… Probably say nothing."

Poirot laughed and patted on Hastings' shoulder. "Or your modesty!"

Hastings grinned warmly at Poirot. "But still, Poirot, naturally you wouldn't be rude to them, but what would you really think about them?"

"That it is hard enough to sleep here without two troublemakers combining their beds", was the answer, in a final intonation that suggested Poirot was having enough of this conversation.

"Quite right, quite right.." Hastings nodded and felt, probably even a bit, relieved.

***


	4. More questions and even more answers

**Chapter 4****: More questions and even more answers**

Waiting for dinner time, they had come to the terrace with glasses of vermouth. They had gotten the same table as last time and Hastings was having difficulty not to stare at Poirot. Poirot had gotten a letter from Miss Lemon (Inter alia: "To have your shoes repaired at the cobbler's, I would have to withdraw 6 pence from your bank account. Is it alright, since you just managed to balance it?") and was now writing a reply.

Hastings was just about to take Poirot's face between his hands and kiss him (in his imagination play, that is) when Poirot looked up at him so suddenly that Hastings felt like he had been caught red-handed and gasped.

"Oh I am so sorry, Hastings", Poirot said gently. "It is just that while writing this letter, I realised something and want to ask you a question."

It took Hastings a while (he had been repeating 'He cannot read minds, he cannot read minds…' in his head) to realise that Poirot meant the mystery hunt.

"Yes, by all means", he said, still slightly flushed and took a sip from his glass.

"So, _numéro un _for today: Is your love of romantic kind?" Poirot asked.

Hastings nodded and tried to avoid Poirot's eyes, because now, more than ever before, he felt that that man could see right through him.

"Yes", Poirot said, as to spare Hastings from saying it. "And I also have the second question, but not more before the dinner. Have you ever had a romantic relationship with the object of your affection?"

"No", Hastings said and felt strangely ashamed, like he had a bad conscience for not having made a move for 'more than four years'.

And, also because right now Poirot had an effusively sympathetic expression, and his thoughts – so obvious that they could've as well be written on his forehead – were: "Oh my, an unattainable love."

Hastings drank up his apéritif and got up. "Dinner time, Poirot."

***

"Can I ask you the third one?" Poirot asked Hastings at dinner. He preferred Hastings' rebellious side more than the submissive, mostly and quite understandably because when Hastings didn't look at him like the man was battered he didn't have to feel sorry for snooping his heart's deepest secret.

"Mmh… That was the deal, was it", Hastings said, eyes fixed on his meal, raising his eyebrows at it.

"Yes it was", Poirot admitted and cleaned his mouth with some wine. "_Alors, trois_. In addition to Captain Hastings, does this love matter concern only one person?"

"It does." Yes, Mr Poirot, it's not a desperate love triangle, thank you very much.

"_Et quatre_. Does she live in Britannia?"

"…Mm, yes", Hastings answered because he didn't know what else to say. '_She_', meh.

This question thing was now killing him. He hadn't thought it would become like this – the slow and gentle way of telling had turned into a slow and painful torture, question by question Poirot got closer to something that Hastings didn't want to reveal and still, he had decided to tell him so it was inevitable. And it was all a game.

Probably Poirot had noticed his unease since he tilted his head a little and tried to look him in the eye, and Hastings had to look up. "You know very well, my dear Hastings, that if this is too uncomfortable to you, I can stop asking and never mention it again", he said in a matter-of-fact way and laid his hand on Hastings'.

Hastings rolled his eyes thoughtfully and sighed, looking at their hands and by the end of his sentence looked into his eyes. "No… I promised myself that I would tell you."

Poirot merely nodded and continued eating. And the greatest mind in Europe could not, to save his own life, see the fact which Hastings was practically rubbing onto his face.

Tell you.

_You_.

***

Poirot was, after all, not at all thick. And now he only needed to find out the object of his friend's love. Of course he could start to define the answer with questions like "Do you think that I know her?" and "Is she younger than you?" but something was bothering him – a feeling (in his opinion, way too familiar, but actually quite a rare one) was creeping into his consciousness: He had missed something. Something big, even huge, something that had been set right in front of him but he simply couldn't name it. He realised this after the dinner in his room, when he had came there for an envelope and left Hastings sitting on the terrace.

Also, he was obviously getting very close to the final answer because Hastings had started to react to his questions more personally. Which confirmed him that he was missing something crucial. He carefully folded his reply into the envelope, closed it and wrote the address. "There", he mumbled to himself but went on in his thoughts.

_No, not quite there yet. Either there is a specific question which I need to ask and poor Hastings is frustrated because I have not, or I should have already guessed it. There is an answer and I know, as certainly as I am Hercule Poirot, that it is something very obvious. So obvious that I cannot see it, right there… What was it that I told Hastings this morning? About difficulties –_

"Have you decided your last question for today, Poirot?"

Poirot startled and straightened up automatically. Hastings closed the door and smiled gloomily.

"No, Hastings, I was having a discussion with myself because I feel that I am very close – yet so far – from the answer", Poirot asked and for some reason felt uncomfortable.

"No?" Hastings confirmed and stepped in front of Poirot.

"Let me give you a clue", he said very decisively, seized Poirot's back of the head and kissed him.

Poirot hadn't spent much of his life kissing people and the mere feeling of being kissed on the lips caught him enough to make him freeze. Hastings' hand on his nape was as decisive as his voice only seconds earlier and he was lightly leaning towards Poirot, just enough to make his balance a bit unstable. Hastings' lips were soft although a bit rough on the lower lip.

_He does have a habit of chewing his lower lip sometimes_.

***


	5. The final question

**Chapter 5: The last question**

Sometime later Hastings let go of Poirot and opened his eyes. _Did I really do it?_

Judging from Poirot's current expression he had done it. Poirot stood there like a huge question mark – one that happened to smell of stunning cologne and have the most amazingly bright, green eyes, though – looking annoyingly vulnerable; he was still a little petrified and so deep in thought that Hastings could've poured ink on his patent leather shoes without him reacting (– well, at least almost).

"I'm sorry?" Hastings said when Poirot still didn't do anything.

Poirot blinked. "_Non, de rien_… it was indeed an excellent clue…"

"Well, you're welcome", Hastings said with a hint of sarcasm.

Poirot looked at Hastings, thousands of thoughts soaring through his grey cells until they combined into one coherent sentence: "You love _me_, Hastings?"

Hastings looked at the ground, walls, anything but Poirot. Well, he had already come this far.

"_Oui_", he said simply, frowning a little.

He sat on the couch, lighting up a cigarette and still wasn't looking at Poirot.

"_C'est bon_", Poirot said, "will you excuse me for a moment, please?"

Hastings looked (accidentally, actually) at Poirot and shrugged.

***

Twenty minutes ago, Poirot had gone to the inn's tiny bar, now sitting there and smoking a cigar and enjoying a small lager. He stood out like a Van Gogh at a flea market and didn't much enjoy the atmosphere, but he needed a place to think and it was really windy outside.

So it had been on for more than four years (he had a hunch about five), and how stupid of him not to notice any of it, or even realise the hint earlier. He now remembered Hastings' words and the odd tone. _No… I promised myself that I would tell you_.

He had never questioned his sexuality in that way, well, most men could live their lives without encountering an _achrien _man.

_Must have been most confusing for him to realise it. Oh Hastings, my Hastings, and the situation you have put me in. How can I tell my dearest friend that I do not know at all whether I shall ever be able to return his feelings, and in these times. War always makes people narrow-minded – we are not in the Ancient Rome. And why is Poirot such a coward, why am I not talking to him. Why is Poirot terrible at talking about his feelings, when it is what I have always teased the introvert Brits for._

Poirot did love him, of course, but in what way, he had no idea.

***

"Come in", Hastings said when half an hour later Poirot knocked on the door.

He lay on the bed and had smoked three cigarettes while trying to think but hadn't gone far – he couldn't bring his thoughts together or find any solutions for he hadn't got the foggiest about Poirot's thoughts.

"How is it? You must have been thinking", Hastings asked Poirot.

"Yes, I have", Poirot answered but, to Hastings' frustration, his tone suggested that he, either, hadn't been able to make up his mind.

"And you have been smoking", he added, waving his hand in front of his face, opened a window and left it ajar. A ray of faint and orange sunset light crept in from the gap.

"Well…?" Hastings asked and sat up, dropping his feet to the Poirot's bed's side of the floor but instead of sitting on his own bed, Poirot sat down next to Hastings with the result of creaking springs.

"I thought about love, relationships", he began vaguely, "and I see no reason why we should change our residential arrangements… I must warn you, _mon ami_, that it is not for granted that my love for you should ever change into a romantic kind."

Hastings couldn't believe his ears; he was excited and disappointed at the same time, but it was far better than depressed and disappointed.

"Yes, well, thank you", Hastings said, smiling feebly and looked at his hands that rested on his lap.

"Do not take it the wrong way, dear Hastings… I never said there was any reason to believe my feelings could not someday meet yours", Poirot said and took Hastings' hand, and when Hastings looked at him, he saw the familiar puckish glint in Poirot's forest green eyes. "I suppose we could start by calling each other by the first name, Arthur."

***

It had been four weeks and four days (unfortunately not precisely four hours .) since they had returned from Scotland and Hastings had realised how happy he was that Poirot hadn't wanted to change their living arrangements even though he had turned him down for the time being. Also Hastings' confession had actually brought the two closer to each other, which still felt really absurd to him. As did calling the master detective '_Hercule_', but he was getting used to it.

Poirot had just solved a new tricky case and they were celebrating it at home.

"_Georges_, would you be so kind to bring us another bottle", Poirot asked and then showed Hastings the bottle. "This is from Spa in Belgium. I happen to know a man who was born in the same town. He is, of course, older and not as well preserved."

"Nonsense", Hastings laughed. "Let's see how it tastes then."

_Not as good as the Belgian man's lips_, Hastings thought although thoughts like this had remarkably lessened after the confession. It was easier to let destiny do its work, as little as Hastings believed in it.

Poirot poured Hastings some red wine. "Did you know, Arthur, that Belgians tend to produce white wine instead of red? This is one of the exceptions, and excellent if I may say."

Hastings shook his head watching that funny little man and had a taste from his glass. "But… it's marvelous!" he blurted out and took some more.

"Hercule knows what you like when it comes to Belgians", that devil said and smiled like one, too.

Hastings coughed a bit and looked at Poirot, who looked back as innocent as only a cat can. (A very old, proud and witty one, too, you know the type.) As good as their friendship now was, after leaving Scotland Poirot hadn't mentioned Hastings' affection to him, let alone teased him about it.

As if things weren't mischievous enough, Poirot served assorted Belgian chocolates for dessert. And they tasted heavenly, of course.

***

They had gone to the sitting room to enjoy those lovely treats alongside with the fresh-opened bottle of wine. In Poirot's sitting room there were two matching sofas and a matching armchair, grouped neatly around a matching coffee table on a Persian rug. Poirot had taken the armchair and Hastings was lounging on a sofa.

"Don't tell me you had these flown here all the way for Belgium for me?" Hastings said while deep in an oral satisfaction, thanks to one very special champagne cream filled white chocolate.

"No, no", Poirot said smiling widely. "That is what we have London's merchants for, is it not?"

"I guess you're right", Hastings said and fell to his old habit of gazing at that incredible man. Humorous, just exotic enough to make your day but not too fierce to scare a Brit away, and so intelligent that only his presence made Hastings feel twice as bright as he was. Yes, he was really happy to share a life with Hercule Poirot, even in a platonic way.

Poirot noticed Hastings' stare but didn't mind at all. He had sorted out a lot of his feelings and at the same time found a new perspective to view Hastings with. "Is it not funny, Arthur, that we are never complete?"

"You mean that there are always new things to learn and so on?" Hastings answered relaxed.

"Exactly", Poirot said delighted. "May I speak to you quite frankly?"

"Of course, Hercule old friend", Hastings said and couldn't resist another little chocolate.

"Because I, myself have learnt something new", Poirot said softly. "After your admirable confession five weeks ago, you didn't change in my eyes at all, you are my dearest friend, as always."

Hastings nodded and swallowed the rest of the treat. _Didn't change at all, he says_, Hastings thought and fought the bitterness while trying to concentrate on his friend.

"_Non_", Poirot continued, only a little proud to know that Hastings would be surprised, "they were my eyes that changed. And drastically so, I can now see so much, so many little _nuances_ in your person, even appearance, that I have seen never before! And for this, my Arthur, I thank you and hope you will not be disappointed."

Hastings was so caught by Poirot's little monologue that at first he didn't notice the hook that was hanging off the end of it. "Um, why would I be disappointed?" he bit the bait.

"Well, you see Arthur, I have never had that kind of a relationship before", Poirot said and walked to Hastings.

"Before just now?" Hastings whispered and couldn't move.

"_Peut-être…_" Poirot answered as he sat next to him and bent down to kiss Hastings.

Of all the people Hastings had kissed, Poirot was the most intense and deliberate, compensating his lack of experience more than enough. He was soft but demanding, and just as they were about to part, he gently bit Hastings' lower lip, sending chills down his spine that took his breath away.

"Hercule Poirot, you are unbelievable", Hastings panted and somehow it didn't sound as mean as he would've liked it to.

"Do not flatter me too much or my hat won't fit tomorrow", Hercule Poirot answered, now whispering.

They were so close that Hastings felt his breath on his lips, and they both smiled.

"Are you still using a hat? I thought they didn't make hats that big", Hastings smirked and succeeded in making Poirot frown.

"If this head is big it is because the grey cells are growing every day", he objected.

For a couple of seconds they were silent and adapting to the feeling: a face so close to yours, a body pressed against yours.

_Hell, this is far from close enough_, were Hastings' mind's last words before his body took control.

***


	6. A disturbed epilogue

**Epilogue**

Afterwards, when we had already managed to make our way to bed, I got on my side and looked proudly at the bastard whose heart I had stolen.

"How do you say it… _Est-ce que tu m'aimes_?" I couldn't help but ask.

"Mm, something like that", he said, looking extremely serene. "Or shorter: _Tu m'aimes_."

"Would you care to answer then?" I insisted, felt like a schoolboy and didn't care.

"_Oui, je t'aime, _Arthur_, très_", he answered and kissed me once more before turning on his side and, soon, falling asleep.

There I lay watching him sleep, Arthur Hastings, his beloved friend. Faithful and charming, calm enough to keep the worst tantrums away but friendly enough not to get too mad at him (that last one being the key when dealing with self-centered people like Hercule)… And yes, just simple enough to make him feel twice as intelligent as he is (but, _bien sûr_, only because I let him believe so).

Next time he solves a mystery, thank me.

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**A/N:** Reviews/feedback are welcome. Hope no-one was traumatised.

Check poirot_fans livejournal for discussion and more.


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